Written episode: 100
by Argentum Anubis
Summary: This is a written version of season 5 episode 9 "100." Written from Hotch's perspective as he enters his old home and encounters the horrors within. [I do not own this nor am I the creator of the episode. This was not written for personal gain.]


This is entirely based on 5x9, "100." Okay, so I know this episode had a lot of people upset [Including me.]. So I decided that I would write it out, put it on paper. I own nothing Criminal Minds related. I did not write Criminal Minds. I do not claim to own Criminal Minds. The characters in Criminal Minds are not mine, nor am I related to any of the actors in any way. This is only meant to allow people to read what happened to allow them to see it in a different perspective, with different details being brought to them at a different moment. I also provided what I believe Hotch would be thinking (first perspective). Do not hate. Appreciate!

 **Rating** : _Rated T because of cursing, mention of murder, murder, fighting, somewhat graphic scenes, and parts that may be disturbing to some readers._

 **Disclaimer** : _Once again, I do not have anything to do with the creation of this episode or any other episodes of Criminal Minds; this is merely a written version. I do not intend to gain anything from this._

 **Note** : _Reviews or private messages that are personal attacks against me or other readers will_ _ **not be tolerated**_ _. This is your only warning._

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The tires screech against the pavement as I pull up to the driveway of my old house- our home. I jump from the car even as the car is sliding to a stop. There are only three things on my mind right now: Haley, Jack, and Foyet. Nothing else matters.

I draw my firearm, running up the front where Jack once played. The unlocked door opens easily, icy to the touch even in the warm light of day. It slams against the wall as I look left, right. The table directly in front of me seats no one, but I do not allow myself to inhale any air as the door falls back to rest against the frame, shutting out the breeze.

I step forward, my feet like lead. Nothing is different about the seats and the curtains in the sitting room. I move forward, to a door slightly ajar _. 'Please don't let her be in here,'_ I pray, while at the same time hoping she is. I want Foyet to be there so that I can exact my revenge, but I am also begging any god that might be listening not to let my son be here. _'_ _Let him be safe. Please… Please let him have understood my message. Please, let him be safe and alive.'_

I burst through the doorway, into the kitchen. As in training, I look right, left, my gun following my line of sight. Again, Nothing.

By this time, my breath is heavy in my eyes and I feel as though I am panting. _'_ _He'll hear me and shoot me before I can get to Jack,'_ I think, my eyes scanning every inch of space around me. As I turn the corner, I grab the flashlight. _'_ _So let it be. He knows I'm here anyways. He's been looking forward to this, my pain.'_

I gently push through a swinging door; I wince as the creaking sound it makes echoes in my ears as groaning. _'_ _Is that what she sounded like as she died?'_

The room is dark and I click on the flashlight, stepping around a table. My hands shake as the light flashes on something red. There is a smear of blood on the carpet in front of me and my feet turn to lead _. 'I don't want to see…'_ I pause mid-step. _'_ _But I need to know. And I need to protect Jack.'_ This thought pushes me forward.

The next room is Jack's play room.

 _'_ _Please not Jack. Please not Jack.'_ This thought is a chant in my mind as I rush forward, ready to shoot Foyet, trying to prepare my mind in case the body of my—

I allow myself a small, grateful gasp as the room is clear, cadaver free. But then—another stain of blood. This time, it resembles a handprint, as though somebody had pulled their failing body across the carpet and up the stairs.

With every step I take up the stairs, my heartbeat grows more erratic. My teeth are chattering. 'Will this be the corner Foyet will be lurking around?' I wonder. I whip around it, pointing my gun. Nothing. I check the room behind me, and then continue forward _. 'Will this be where Haley's body is?_ ' I can see the footprints leading to the room I once shared with the love of my life.

My question is answered as I spot a pair of feet sticking out in the view of the doorway.

I try to push back the tears that are puddling up in my eyes. But even through the tears, I can see (too perfectly) the body of Haley, sprawled gently on the carpet of the master bedroom, blood stained on her skin.

Her eyes—they look like they are watching me as I move nearer, dulled with the glaze of death. I shiver at the sight of the bullet hole in her neck, a knife mark right next to it. Her chest is covered in scarlet. I sniffle; I'm crying now.

I don't even have time to grieve before I spot a pair of black shoes revealed underneath the curtain through the mirror. I begin shooting, multiple times. A body falls heavily to the floor and I dash over to it, ripping away the curtains. Seeing a gun, I snatch it up and throw it away. My stomach churns as I turn Foyet over, revealing bullets lodged in armor. Raising my eyes to the face, his mouth shifts into a twisted grin. He begins to raise himself, but can only get up partially before I punch him in the face.

We both fall to the ground with the force of it, then scramble in unison to get up—him to get away; me to shoot once at him, hitting him in the back. He falls and I race towards him. He is standing and pointing the gun I threw from him as I duck behind the bedroom wall. He fires another shot before turning and running. Hearing the footsteps, I surge after.

A table is knocked over as he turns the corner to the stairs and I jump on him. We topple down the stairs. When we reach the bottom, I fall back and my head connects with the wall. It stuns me for long enough to give him a second to stand. I kick his feet out from under him, and then grab his neck from behind, pushing him into the wall, where there is already a bloody handprint.

My rage has taken on another level from the amount of emotional discourse running through my veins. I punch him, grab his face, and then slam it into the wall. I swivel him around, then push his head back again, into a glass photo frame, ignoring him as he screams in pain and in rage. _'_ _Why Haley?! She did nothing to you, you bastard!'_

He kicks out and we grip each other's arms. Foyet slams his head into mine, running to the next room. I lock onto him. Falling, my back lands on the table. It cannot handle our joined weight and we go crashing down. He is the first one up this time, slapping me and forcing me back down to the ground.

He takes the opportunity to grab a glass vase and smash it against my forehead. He is gasping for air as I watch him feel through his back pocket for his knife through the corner of my blurry vision.

"After I finish you," he says through uneven breaths, "I'm gonna find that little bastard son of yours and I'm gonna show him both of his dead parents, and I'm gonna tell him that it was all your fault."

At the mention of my son, I lash out with a piece of heavy wood, and then tackle him into the corner of the room

"And then I'm gonna-"

I do not allow him to finish his sentence, pushing him to the ground and punching his face with as much strength as I can gather. With Haley gone, I now have only two things on my mind: _'_ _Kill him!_ ' and _'_ _Protect Jack!'_

"OK. You got- you got me," he admits, blood trickling form his nose to the corner of his lip. "I surrender." He is repeating this last sentence as I slam my fist into his face again.

And _again_.

And _again_.

And _again_ …

Images flash through my mind as my body goes on autopilot, striking him over and over:

 _Foyet shooting at me the night he broke into my apartment, with his face concealed by the black mask._

 _Haley lying on the ground, bloodied and dead._

 _Foyet pulling the trigger._

 _Innocent little Jack's face, hopeful._

 _Foyet, stabbing me in the chest, a gleeful look playing across his features._

 _Foyet shooting at me._

 _The Marshall who was supposed to protect Haley and Jack on the ground of his home, blood covering his left temple, giving a small but victorious smile._

 _The Reaper, stabbing an innocent driver, a man in the throat._

 _Foyet sitting back in front of me, holding the knife with blood- my blood- on it as he talked about his own experiences stabbing himself._

 _Foyet smirking, his mouth bloody_

 _The masked face of The Reaper peering down at me._

 _The silver knife with red speckles_

 _Me, laying in the hospital with tubes in my nostrils, hoping that my family is okay._

And then, suddenly, Morgan is running into the room—along with Prentiss and Rossi– yelling my name. "He's dead!" he exclaims, "Hotch, stop. Come on, stop it! It's over."

He pulls me back, away from Foyet. My hands are clenched in fists, and I don't want to unclench them. I want to keep hitting the man, the murderer before me. Then it dawns on me: _'_ _This is what some killers feel when they murder someone: this anger, this hatred.'_

I allow Morgan to pull me further away from the _thing_ before me, breaking down.

He hugs me from behind. "It's OK. It's over, man."

I push myself to my feet and rush to where I know where Jack is hiding.

I run into my old office, panting. _'_ _Please-oh-please-oh-please-'_ I hesitate barely a second, putting my hands on the top of the trunk next to my desk, then lift up the lid, revealing a small boy in a Captain America T-shirt.

"I work the case Daddy, just like you said."

My mouth twists and I want to smile and be proud and break down into tears all at the same time. "You did a great job, Buddy." I reach for him with bloodied hands.

He lets me pull him out, asking, "What happened to you, daddy?"

I sense JJ and the others come up the stairs behind me. "I'm OK. I want you to go outside with Ms. Jareau. OK?"

He nods, slowly walking over to the blond woman as she says "Come here, sweetheart." She lifts him up and carries him out of the room, past Reid, who also turns away.

Now that my son is out of the room, I allow myself to start breaking down, putting a hand to my forehead. _'_ _He's okay,_ ' I think, relieved. I stand. _'_ _But she isn't…'_ I begin to cry once again, going across the hall to the room where I know she is—where her corpse is.

I kneel down next to her.

Morgan is there, whispering, "I am so sorry, Hotch."

I look at him, acknowledge his presence, but my trembling lips have no words that they can form, no thoughts that can express the agony I am feeling in this moment as I reach out and raise my wife up to me. I hold her; hug her cold body as I sob openly.

 _'_ _I'm so sorry.'_

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 **Author's Note** : I hope this helped you get this scene unstuck from your mind. I know that I kept on thinking about it, over and over, after I watched it. It is so sad! Poor Hotch, Haley, and Jack! Anyways, if you have a comment on my writing style or some tips on ways that I might improve, there's an awesome review box waiting for you right below.


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